


wonder where your heart came from

by hamiltrashed



Series: The Room Where It Happens [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Everyone has feelings, Friends with sort of benefits, JAMILTON IS ENDGAME I PROMISE, M/M, Oral Sex, The threesome is a means of people like figuring themselves out and shit, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6924442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been caught together, Jefferson orchestrates a little fun between himself, Hamilton, and Laurens, his end goal to let Hamilton figure out for himself exactly where and with whom he belongs. But there are still far too many feelings involved for anybody's comfort, and Hamilton knows he's not the only one who's afraid. </p>
<p>(Or, the one where everybody has EVEN MORE FEELINGS THAN BEFORE.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	wonder where your heart came from

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, oh my god. This thing is finally done. I'm _so_ sorry to the people who have been waiting so long for this. I got caught up in the end of the semester at college and I finally just got a real chance to finish it yesterday. Bless you all for waiting; your patience should get you nominated for sainthood!
> 
> Thank you to my perfect, wonderful beta Michelle_A_Emerlind for being the best Muffin, and also to Skarlatha because she and MAE convinced me not to just trash this thing because I was so worried I would never finish it or that it was terrible or something. But it's done, and I'm glad it is, because now I can move on to writing other HamJeffs fic (no joke, I have about a dozen in the works).
> 
> _what did you do?_  
>  _wonder where your heart came from_  
>  _..._  
>  _what you're feeling is what i'm feeling too_  
>  _what you're made of is what i'm made of too_  
>  _what are you afraid of?_  
>  _i know that you are_  
>  \- London Grammar

Sometimes, John can’t tell if it’s an obsession or real love. It’s not that he hasn’t spent a lot of time thinking it through, because he has; sometimes, his work falls by the wayside while he watches Alex, studies him, and he thinks it’s a miracle Washington hasn’t fired him yet. But still, he’s not quite sure if the feelings that are settled somewhere in the middle of his chest, sometimes deep down in the pit of his stomach, are a sign that he’s in love with Alexander, or just that he’s obsessed with the mere idea of having him.

Lately, something has changed. Alexander used to return his shy glances with smiles that John had told himself meant something. And maybe they did, but Alex, notorious for his very big mouth, had never said a word. Now, Alex so rarely meets his eyes, and if John watches him long enough, as he is prone to doing, he’ll follow his gaze across the room in one of two directions: Washington’s office, or Jefferson’s desk. More and more often, it’s the latter, and John wonders what exactly he’s missed.

The Jefferson-Hamilton rivalry is not infamous enough to be counted amongst the greats; they’re no Hatfields and McCoys, no Yankees and Red Sox. But within the office, it’s not exactly a secret that there’s animosity there, something mean and deep-rooted in the harshly snapped words when they speak to each other, in the death glares they give one another. Or gave, because now, everything is different. And somehow, John just completely _missed_ the moment it all changed.

They still keep up the pretense. Alex will walk by Jefferson on his way to the restroom, _accidentally_ bump his desk and send a cup of pens scattering across the floor. In response, Thomas will make a show of things like fixing the copier, and casually wiping toner stained hands across Hamilton’s shoulders, leaving him looking a mess the next time he goes into Washington’s office. But there’s no real sense of revenge there, no real heat behind the actions. Now, it’s almost… playful. And that makes John’s heart ache with jealousy.

He’s sure there’s nothing really going on, positive that a man like Alexander Hamilton does not, would never stoop to sleeping with an enemy, even if that enemy is looking more like a frenemy every day. But the way they play off each other now, the way Alex visibly lusts after Thomas from across the room day in and day out is frustrating to watch. And the more John thinks about it, the more it becomes apparent that even when Alex offered _him_ those lovely smiles or invited him along for drinks or clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by his desk – he never looked at John the way he looks at Jefferson now.

John feels guilty in a way. For one thing, he himself has never taken a shot, thrown away so many that he’d never be able to count them all. And for another, it’s not like he hasn’t seen the way someone else looks at _him_ , much in the way he looks at Alex. Noticed, and done nothing, because, well… Hamilton. Alex is enigmatic, exudes a certain kind of organic presence that from anyone else, John would find exhausting and heavy. But he thinks he needs it in his life because it’s Alex. Or maybe it’s that he thinks that he can tame it. Not that he wants to make Alex docile or control him or own him, just that John likes to think that perhaps, if anyone could make Alex pause and take stock of his life, learn to breathe deep and smell the roses, it would be him.

And so when Lafayette’s eyes follow John across a room the way his own follow Alex, he ignores it. Even though Lafayette admires him the way he admires Alex, and even though John would be foolish not to notice that Gilbert is just as worthy of his affections as Alex is, it’s been difficult. He’s already gravitated too far into the Hamilton orbit, so much so that even when Lafayette routinely brings him coffee when he stops to get his own, greets him with lilting French epithets that speak quite plainly to his affections for John, John can only smile prettily and thank him graciously, and be drawn back to Alex like a helpless fly to a sweetly venomous spider the moment Lafayette has gone. So he feels guilty for even being upset that Alex might have eyes for someone else, that his heart might already be off the market when there are eyes on him that he’s ignoring, too, no matter how much he truly does like Lafayette.

But he just can’t help himself. Alex has gotten under his skin for no other reason, John supposes, than he existed in the right place at the right time. Maybe it’s his refusal to dwell on the effigy of what he once was, or the fact that he works so hard for what he wants and John just wants to be one of those things. He doesn’t really know. He only knows that Alex is gorgeous and talks a mile a minute in a blistering, rapid tongue that is purely him, and John desperately wants to be fluent in it.

He can’t pretend that a man like Lafayette doesn’t have the qualities he wants. In fact, Lafayette more than Alex is damn near perfect for him. In a way, he has some of the same qualities as Alex, but where Alex runs a hundred miles a second on a road that twists and turns, Gilbert runs parallel to John. But it’s quite possibly too late for all of that. Alex has his hooks in, even if he doesn’t know it, and somewhere in his subconscious, John knows it’s probably never going to happen. But still, he has to try. No matter what it is – whether it’s love, infatuation, lust, neediness – John is sure of one thing: he’s got to find a way to slip in under the radar before Alex is too far gone down whatever path leads to Jefferson, and find out if they could ever have a chance at all.

The prime time, he tells himself, is when everybody’s already left for the day. Most people, anyway. Alex has been working late these days, often up in the office alone, settled behind his desk with its framed photo of the mother he never talks about, poring over document after document with the intent to learn them or fix them or whatever it is he does for Washington now. It’s a good time to suck up his fears and go and talk to Alex, with nobody else around to see him blush so hard his freckles blend together. He takes the stairs all the way up, thinking of the words he wants his mouth to form when he sees Alex. _Let’s go for drinks_ , he’ll say. Or, _Let’s have dinner. Let’s see a movie or talk politics or go to a bookstore_. A braver man would invite Alex back to his place for something a little less tame, but despite a dozen fantasies that all end that way, John is not that intrepid.

John swallows about a hundred times before he reaches the door to the west end of the twentieth floor, trying to force his mouth to not be so dry. _You got this_ , he tells himself, and opens the door, a greeting just about at the tip of his tongue. But it dies on his lips, and time seems to die, too, or at least slow down considerably. Because the next moment lasts five or ten seconds, fifteen at the most, and yet it seems that John stands there for hours.

Alex is not alone. He’s not sitting at his desk as John expects him to be, not hunched over, reading and rereading whatever he’s currently working on. No. He’s on his back, across Jefferson’s desk, and Jefferson’s cock is buried so deep inside of him that it seems as though they’re one person. Alex’s back is arched away from the dark wood, every muscle in his body is taut like it’s electricity running through him, and his legs are spread wide open at an angle that would make a porn star blush. He’s right on the edge; John knows this as sure as he knows how much his own heart is sinking. Alex has got one hand around his own cock, and with just a few strokes, he’s trembling and almost there, almost, _almost_ …

The door snaps shut behind John. Both Jefferson and Alex look over at him, and just as quickly, Jefferson turns back, drives his hips home again and again and again, completely unconcerned with John’s presence. But Alex’s eyes meet his, and at that exact moment, with one hand around himself, one of Thomas’s wrapped around his own, helping him, and Thomas fucking into him like his whole damn world is centered right here on his desk, Alex loses it. His cheeks go flaming red, even as he comes with a beautifully messy splatter across his chest, and his eyes fall closed. John isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to look at him anymore, or because he just can’t keep them open while he rides the wave of orgasm, moaning and gasping and shaking like a leaf.

All John is sure of is that he has to go, right now, has to get out, has to leave before he succumbs to the war of feelings in his chest and does something utterly stupid, like cry or say something absurd to a man he maybe loves or maybe doesn’t, to the man who’s maybe the one or maybe isn’t, who’s still being fucked like his life depends on it. So he turns and runs and curses the pounding in his head that sounds all too much like the slap of skin on skin, curses the obnoxious heat flooding his groin at what he just witnessed. As he slams his hand onto the elevator button repeatedly, as if that will change how long it takes the doors to open, all he can think is that now, at least he has an answer to his question. The thing that changed while he wasn’t looking is that Alexander fell in love, and the man who happened to be in the right place at the right time was not himself, but Thomas Jefferson.

#

Hamilton barely pays attention when Jefferson comes all over his thigh. Breathing hard, he sits up the second Jefferson steps away, reaches for the box of tissues he knocked off of Jefferson’s desk and into his chair, and begins cleaning himself off.

“You in a hurry?” Jefferson asks, breathing hard and looking at Hamilton like he just ruined his entire orgasm. “Laurens isn’t gonna blab, you know.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I didn’t mean for him… I didn’t want him to find out like that.”

“Why?” Jefferson asks, but then he snorts derisively. “Oh, right. ‘Cause he’s into you.”

“He’s in love with me, I think,” Hamilton says, fumbling for his shirt under the desk.

“You think the world’s in love with you,” Jefferson says, but if it’s an insult, the punch just isn’t there.

“John actually is,” Hamilton replies. “And I just crushed him.”

Jefferson suddenly turns cold, callous. “He’s an adult, he’ll get over it. Anyway, what do I care? We’re not exclusive, Alexander. If you wanna go comfort baby boy Laurens, stick your dick in him and tell him he’s still the prettiest thing in New York City, you go right ahead.” Despite the words, Jefferson’s tone is anxious and frustrated, and certainly says to Hamilton that he does, in fact, care.

Still, Hamilton huffs at him, gives him a dirty look. “Why are you being such an asshole lately? Ever since… you know what, never mind.” The words he really wants to say are suddenly frozen in his throat, and he doesn’t want to force them out and turn this into a confrontation. Because the fact is, Hamilton thinks he knows now _exactly_ why Jefferson is being more of a dick than he usually is, and talking about it right here, right now, is not something he’s equipped for. Not least because it would seem oddly hypocritical at this point when his own feelings aren’t behaving the way he wishes they would.

Hamilton buttons up his shirt all wrong, tugs his pants on and doesn’t buckle his belt, and slips his shoes back on, still tied. And then he takes off after Laurens, taking the stairs down to the parking garage, hoping not to miss him. And lucky for him (if facing a man whose heart you just potentially broke could be called lucky), Laurens is just exiting the elevator when Hamilton reaches the garage, breathless and a mess.

“Wait, John,” Hamilton gasps, and Laurens turns to look at him. Hamilton can’t tell if that’s hurt in his eyes or not, but when he speaks, he can damn well hear it in his voice.

“What?” Laurens snaps.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton says earnestly. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”

Laurens gives him something that resembles a smile, but isn’t. “Did you mean for me to find out at all? I mean, it’s whatever, Alex. I would’ve moved on eventually but you let me hope… you _knew_ what I wanted and you should have just said that you’re with him and I would have moved on and… never mind, I don’t owe you an explanation of how I’m feeling right now.”

“Of course you don’t,” Hamilton says quickly. “I only meant… it’s not… we’re not exclusive, him and me. It’s not like we’re in a relationship.”

John’s face is disbelieving, and there’s something like surprise in his eyes before they narrow at him. “Oh,” he says with mock thoughtfulness. “Well, in that case. You’re not _exclusive_ , so you can just do whatever you want with me, is that it?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Hamilton says, and he really didn’t, but Laurens shakes his head.

“Sure you did. What is it you think is going to happen, Alex? You think I’m just going to say let’s have a relationship, but you go right ahead and bend over for Jefferson whenever you want? Because I’m not enough, right?”

“John, no, I didn’t --”

Laurens steps closer. “Does he fuck you good, Alex? Make you scream? Sounded like it to me. Clearly he hits the right spot. Something you think I can’t do.” Laurens grabs Hamilton by his wrinkled, misbuttoned shirt, yanks him close and kisses him. Nothing about it is as soft, as mild, as meek as Hamilton expected it might be. It’s downright dirty, the way Laurens bites his lip, damn near fucks Hamilton’s mouth with his tongue, and when he pulls away, Hamilton is half hard again already, breathing shallow and looking at Laurens with obvious surprise. And there’s bite and bitterness and heat in John’s words when he spits out, “You have no idea how good it’d be with me. And now you don’t get to know.”

He turns and stalks toward his car, gets in and speeds away. Hamilton, stunned, moves toward his own with the intent to follow, but rush hour in New York City is really rush _hours_ , and the second Laurens finds himself in a line of cars, Hamilton will lose him. So he sits in the garage for a while, hands on the steering wheel, thinking of going back upstairs to Jefferson, but realising he doesn’t have the balls to admit defeat there, either.

So he goes home instead, parks his car and ambles down the road to the bar, trying to rebutton his shirt on the way, still feeling a mess, still with the smell of Jefferson on him, still with the taste of John on his lips.

Hamilton doesn’t drink when he gets there. He pays for a drink, yes, but it sits in front of him for a long time, and something in the amber liquid tells him he doesn’t deserve to forget. He doesn’t deserve to drink long and deep until he forgets how he maybe broke a heart and almost certainly fell for the wrong person. Because Laurens is angry and Jefferson is all wrong no matter how right he feels, and Hamilton should have just settled when he had the chance instead of swinging for the fence and falling short. He’s always falling short these days, and he’s damn tired of it.

And yet, if he hadn’t taken his shot, would he ever have truly been happy? Maybe there would have been fire with Laurens, maybe it would have burned hot and bright, but maybe it would have burned out, too, left them both cold and empty and wanting. To be wanting is to be hungry and Alex has known true starvation before. He’s known desperation and it’s a feeling that hurts deep in the veins. But he hasn’t been feeling it lately, and he knows that’s down to Jefferson. How can he settle for Laurens if settling is what it is? Even if there’s a suitable amount of passion, passion should never just be suitable, should never be just _safe_. Passion should consume, and with Jefferson, he’s admittedly been swallowed down until there’s barely anything left of him that exists outside of the other man.

But even as Hamilton thinks this, it scares him. He’s faced an absent father and dead family, a home torn apart by a deadly force of nature that held nothing back and almost ruined him, too – and yet _nothing_ is as terrifying as the idea of loving Thomas Jefferson. The idea that Hamilton might want to be with him for longer than just a night at a time. The idea that he’s never in his life been this desperate to wake up to someone and now, if he closes his eyes and breathes in deep, he can smell his morning coffee in a room that smells like morning sex beside a man that smells like expensive cologne and the coconut oil he puts in his hair.

And now he’s stuck at a crossroads, glancing down the dark, litter-strewn path that leads to Jefferson, side-eyeing the one that leads to something safer, a well-trodden and clear lit path to Laurens or a man just like him. And with no sign that tells him just where to go, Hamilton slides his drink along the bar to a lonely looking girl in lipstick redder than a firetruck, telling her to enjoy. She offers a name – Maria – but in spilling his story to a stranger lies trouble, so instead, he nods at her and exits, deciding that a third path exists where he just goes home for the night and wallows in a mess of his own creation.

When Hamilton slides the key into the lock on his door ten minutes later, he does so with resignation. His apartment is dark when he steps inside, no kitchen lights on, no pasta boiling on the stove. Hamilton doesn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed, and shakes his head at his own stupid feelings before slinking through the living room toward the hall that leads to his bedroom. But he doesn’t get very far when the lamp clicks on behind him.

Hamilton nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling around, about to yell at Jefferson for scaring a good year off of his life, but it’s not Jefferson. Sitting in the armchair instead is Laurens, looking up at Hamilton with something in his eyes that Hamilton can’t quite read.

“John,” Hamilton says. “You’re… what are you doing here?”

“Relax,” Laurens tells him quietly, dangling a ring of keys from one finger, the little silver one that unlocks Hamilton’s door gleaming in the lamplight. “Jefferson gave them to me. He just went to get groceries. Said he owed you. Told me to wait.”

“He told you to… what for?”

Laurens shrugs, twirls the keys around his finger once, then twice, and slumps back into the chair, laughing at nothing. “Well, see, Thomas was feeling bad. I know, imagine a world where Thomas Jefferson feels bad about anything, let alone admits it. Anyway, he said he felt as though he wasn’t giving you much of a chance to figure things out. Or me. Himself, too, I guess.”

Hamilton gapes for a moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

“He came to track me down after I left and you know, I don’t think he feels a _bit_ guilty for the way he got to you first, but he says he doesn’t know if he ever gave you a chance to explore what you really want. Just stepped into your life and ruled you.”

Hamilton scoffs, turns his eyes away. “He doesn’t _rule_ me.”

“Are you sure?” Laurens asks. It’s an honest question, asked with all the integrity a man like Laurens possesses. “Because I look around here and he’s everywhere. I can feel him here. Can’t you?”

Hamilton casts his eyes to the floor as if there will be imprints left in the carpet from when Jefferson fucked him right there until it was over and between their hands lay a vast, vast inch of space, both too large to bridge and too small to bear the weight of them both.

Laurens waves a hand. “But that’s not the point. I’m here because he invited me. I think he wants me to realise after what just happened that there’s been someone else for me the whole damn time and get you out of my system. And I think he wants you to feel like you have a choice. We both know you don’t, but I think it could be fun either way, no?”  


“What do you mean, I don’t have a choice?” Hamilton asks, but Laurens is standing then, closing the space between them, and pressing a finger to Hamilton’s lips.

“Don’t be foolish. Why don’t you just admit it to yourself?” Laurens responds, leaning in and capturing Hamilton’s lips once again. His kisses are softer this time, somewhere between chaste and the dirty kiss in the garage, as if Laurens is merely wasting time until Jefferson returns and the real fun that he’s suggesting they’re going to have will begin. But Hamilton doesn’t mind. They’re good kisses and it’s nice to just be kissed by someone whose heart is on his sleeve instead of locked up tighter than Fort Knox (as if he has room to talk).

“Admit what?” Hamilton murmurs between the press of Laurens’ lips against his own, between the thudding beats of his own heart.

“Come on,” John whispers, pulling back to look him in the eye. “You have feelings for him.”

Hamilton shakes his head, pushes Laurens away and takes a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But John catches his arm before he can walk away.

“I think I always knew deep down that we wouldn’t work but then I saw you with Jefferson. I’ve seen the way you are at work and then I saw you tonight and you are _lost_ to anyone else, Alex. I get that now, he’s made me see sense. But… well, how stupid would I be not to take an opportunity to see how you got a man like Thomas Jefferson to look like he’s always walking around in a haze.”

“What? He doesn’t –”

“God, you are really, really daft sometimes. Look, we’re gonna have fun tonight, Alex. I need this, and ultimately, I think you do, too so you can finally come to terms with the idea that nobody else will do. And you can’t pretend you’re not into it. Because it will be _good_ , I promise you that. But I’ll bet you a case of Sam Adams and the Yanks game at my place next weekend that when all is said and done, you’ll realise all over again that nothing’s ever going to make you feel how he feels. And I can respect that.” He pauses to grin. “Well, I can respect it _tomorrow_. And who knows. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll have come to terms with it myself and gotten my act together and realised there’s been somebody who’s wanted me the way I’ve wanted you all along. I’ve been so blind; haven’t you?”

Hamilton takes a deep, shaky breath and says nothing. Instead, he uses a technique familiar to him and kisses John just to make him stop talking, to make him stop saying these things that are too true to deny and too frightening to talk about just now.

“You _are_ gorgeous,” he admits against John’s lips.

Laurens laughs. “I know,” he says simply.

Hamilton lets his hands drift down to John’s belt, is just about to tug it open when the door opens behind them. Jefferson immediately heads into the kitchen like it’s his, like he’s always belonged there, starts putting things in the cupboards and the refrigerator. Hamilton doesn’t let go of his friend.

“Getting started without me?” Jefferson calls.

Hamilton just shakes his head at John, calls back to Jefferson, “You’re late.”

He goes back to kissing Laurens, perhaps because he imagines it will make Jefferson jealous, or because he’s half amused and half turned on already, and tonight will be something to remember. At the very least, he thinks, he and Jefferson will tag team Laurens and leave him with a fun story to tell.

But even as one hand drifts down over John’s ass, Laurens snatches that idea away quickly as if he’s read Hamilton’s mind. “Oh no,” he says, “that’s not for you.” Hamilton imagines his face must look rather affronted, because Laurens adds, “It’s not for him, either, don’t worry. Yours on the other hand…” A wide grin splits his face.

Hamilton finds himself surprised but unopposed to this, and once again, somewhat ashamed at the assumptions he’s made about Laurens and his prowess. Still, he doesn’t want to shift the balance away from himself too quickly, so he keeps this to himself.

“Oh?” he asks. “You two got this all planned, have you?”

Hamilton swears he hears Jefferson’s soft laugh from the kitchen, and then Laurens starts nudging him toward his own bedroom, murmuring increasingly filthy things in his ear as they go. “You have no idea. I thought he was trying to be cruel at first. Thomas. In telling me about what you’re like when he fucks you. He says you like to try and take control, that you think you’re a top even though you both know you’re a bottom. And I could see that, when I got a little glimpse of you on that desk, Alex. The way you move like you’re in control even though frankly, I think they can see it from space, how much you’re like a thirsty man in a desert, the way you crave cock. So that’s what you’re gonna get. Me and then Thomas until you can’t handle it anymore.”

Hamilton feels a wicked shiver go up his spine, bites his lip so he doesn’t make a sound when he starts to threaten the structural integrity of the zipper on his pants. Laurens turns him back to face him, walks him backward through the door of his bedroom, almost to the bed and then stops. “Nothing to say?” Laurens adds belatedly, his tone amused. “Rare.”

He circles around to Hamilton’s back, reaches up and carefully pulls his hair tie free, gentle hands combing through Hamilton’s hair so that it hangs to his shoulders, brushing it aside briefly to kiss at the back of his neck. And then Jefferson is there, in the doorway, all-out sauntering toward them, or maybe prowling. He makes quick work of the buttons on Hamilton’s now very wrinkled shirt, yanks his shirttails free of his pants, and presses himself against Hamilton’s chest, sandwiching him between himself and Laurens.

And maybe they’re both right about the fact that Hamilton has never learned that there is virtue in shutting one’s mouth now and then, but suddenly, it doesn’t matter because he can’t speak anyway but to whimper. Outside of this room, Hamilton would tell himself that this would never happen, that he would never let himself be dominated in this manner. But in here, where he can damn near smell his own desire and arousal, where there is such potential for things beyond his imagining to occur… well, truly, who could protest?

Jefferson captures his lips, and it’s a kiss that tastes like raw sugar after a life of imitation, oddly sweet and rough on his tongue. One hand curls around Hamilton’s hip, his thumb caressing a spot there, less tease and more comfort. And it feels like a trick, this strange and unexpected kindness he’s displaying, but Hamilton takes it for what it is while he can. Jefferson’s teeth catch at his bottom lip as he pulls away, and Hamilton sinks back against Laurens while Jefferson leans into him again. His lips find Hamilton’s ear and he whispers, far more characteristically for him than his kiss, “Can’t wait ‘til he opens you up again for me.”

There’s a moment then when Hamilton doesn’t know whose hands are doing what, only that there are four of them on him, touching his back, his ass, his chest, one deftly opening his belt and his pants at something close to warp speed. And then his clothes are off and he is nothing more than exposed flesh and flushed cheeks. Laurens backs away from him to sit on the end of the bed, and Jefferson turns Hamilton away from him as he always seems to be doing. This time, though, it feels like he’s turning him to face whatever it is that Laurens represents in this equation. But Hamilton doesn’t have time to do the math. He only has time to take a step forward at Jefferson’s urging, only has time to feel Jefferson’s teeth catch at his earlobe and his voice, low and rough, saying, “Show him what you got, Alexander.”

Hamilton goes to his knees and Laurens tangles his fingers up into Hamilton’s hair. Hamilton still isn’t quite sure what this means, what any of this means -- only that, a minute later, when Laurens is pushing the head of his cock just past Hamilton’s lips, Hamilton knows exactly what Laurens wants. And he lets Laurens do it, lets him fuck his mouth, lets him pause now and then and lie heavy on his tongue, hard and throbbing and so goddamn wet.

“Good as I thought you’d be,” Laurens murmurs, alternately carding his fingers through Hamilton’s hair again and again, and twisting locks of it arounds his hands, tugging gently but enough to manipulate Hamilton’s head the way he wants it when he rocks his hips forward, away from the edge of the bed. “Being halfway down your throat _does_ get you to stop talking, doesn’t it?”

Hamilton can’t tell if this is Laurens talking or if Jefferson has fed him a line or two and is now sitting off to the side, watching Hamilton go to work. But it doesn’t matter, because John’s slight frame belies the power in the softness of his voice, and Hamilton believes in whatever he’s saying. Nothing here says Laurens thinks Hamilton owes him any of this, but with one hand between his own legs and John’s encouraging touch at the back of his head, Hamilton is inclined to believe everything he says like it’s law… even John’s observations about him and Jefferson that he’s not so keen on hearing.

After a few minutes, Laurens tugs him away, leaves them both gasping, and pats the bed beside him. “Come up here,” he says, “hands and knees.” Hamilton obeys.

His knees shake as they dig into the mattress, and now he can see Jefferson, sitting at the head of the bed, nearly naked and watching with interest. And this interests Hamilton, because Jefferson is perennially unable to sit on the sidelines, and yet here he is, taking a backseat to Laurens for the present moment, as if this is all an experiment and he’s a mad scientist (he’s certainly got the hair for it).

Jefferson hums softly and mutters something under his breath that Hamilton doesn’t hear, and that gets the gears going in his head about all the things Jefferson could be thinking right now. But it doesn’t last long when Laurens climbs up on the bed behind him, starts tracing a finger down the middle of Hamilton’s back in a zigzag pattern until he reaches his ass, gently runs his thumb around the rim of his hole. Hamilton’s hips jerk forward and he stifles a gasp into his arm, eyes on Jefferson whose mouth turns up at the corners in a little wicked grin.

“Already good to go, huh?” Laurens asks him, and Hamilton shivers, remembering the desk, the cold wood beneath his back, Jefferson fucking him until he couldn’t see straight. And just like then, Jefferson doesn’t take his eyes off him now, merely reaches toward the bedside table, then tosses what Hamilton assumes are condoms and lube at Laurens over his head. Laurens catches them, and there’s a moment’s pause where Jefferson moves from the head of the bed to the middle, threads a hand through Hamilton’s hair and bends his head to kiss him.

Hamilton moans against his mouth, can’t deny his own excitement at all of this, at the prospect of letting both men take him, even if Laurens is ultimately right and somewhere inside, he knows his choice has already been made. Because he’s still scared of it, still scared of his stupid, treacherous heart and its stupid, treacherous decision. Half of him is enthralled at the idea of this little game they’re all playing, the part of him that just wants to give it up because more and more lately, there’s a deep and dirty ache for it. And the other half, the part of him that’s betrayed his own ideals, is caught by the idea that even at the end of this, Laurens will have had his fun, will still be his own man, and Hamilton… well, despite his best efforts, Hamilton will be Jefferson’s.

Hamilton is not sure he’s ever even really known how to be wanted. And when Laurens thrusts inside of him, hands on his hips, in one steady, smooth motion, makes him moan long and low, he considers how Laurens has wanted him. Or wanted what he thinks Hamilton is. Despite the power he demonstrates here, Laurens is still Laurens, only loud when he needs to be, when he needs people to listen, returning to calm rationality when he has the attention he’s been aiming for. But Hamilton is loud all the time, loud even when people are already listening, wild and endlessly talkative and demonstrably non-fucking-stop. Laurens, Hamilton thinks, wants the Hamilton he thinks he can create if they were to be together, a Hamilton that quiets, a rough around the edges but soft in the middle Hamilton that just doesn’t exist.

Hamilton thinks he knows that now, and even if he didn’t, he’d have to be blind not to sense it because even here, Hamilton can’t shut up. He lets himself fall against the bed and Jefferson, returning to his previous position, lets Hamilton lay across his legs with his ass in the air, a groaning mess, whispering _more_ and _please_ and _harder_ , even though John is damn near already giving him everything.

“Never satisfied, are you?” Laurens teases. “God, I used to think about doing this.”

Hamilton, gasping for air, mutters, “Living up to your expectations?”

“Oh yes,” John breathes, “but not exceeding them.”

Jefferson snorts out a laugh, and addresses Laurens. “Watch out, he doesn’t take challenges well.”

As if to prove the validity of this statement, Hamilton pushes himself back up on weak, shaking arms and starts rolling his hips back against Laurens. It’s good, he’ll admit, far too much fun to just fuck around with his friend and his… whatever Jefferson is, knowing there are no strings, at least where Laurens is concerned. And if he doesn’t think too hard about the real reason they’re all here, it’s even better showing off for Laurens. Not in a way as if to show him what he’s missed or to taunt him for not taking a chance when he could have just as well as Hamilton could have, but just because Jefferson is right: Hamilton has never backed down from a challenge and doesn’t intend to start now.

“Is he better than me?” Jefferson asks, and Hamilton, still in the midst of trying to take just a little bit of control, shakes his head, a laugh on his lips.

“Nope,” Hamilton says, in playful retaliation for John’s assessment of him. He groans and arches his back. “But he is _damn_ good.”

“You’re _damn_ right,” Laurens adds, and then all three of them are laughing, a joyous little pause in the heat of this moment. And Hamilton wasn’t lying; Laurens is fucking good at this, far better than Hamilton ever thought this pretty little thing might be. But it’s also true that he’s not Jefferson. Hamilton doesn’t quite feel it the way he does with Jefferson. If he were to compare it to anything, it’d be like two sides of the same coin. Laurens is the opposite side, and in a way, he fucks him like he’s trying to complete him. But Hamilton can’t deny the notion he gets whenever Jefferson is inside of him that they’re already on the same side of the coin. They’re not two people then, just one, and while Laurens is certainly fucking Hamilton good enough to get him there, Jefferson takes him there and then beyond. And Hamilton is ever craving what’s beyond, always wanting what’s next, this thing that only Jefferson seems to be able to give him, for whatever reason that defies comprehension.

Hamilton tries to get out of his own head, to just enjoy the pleasure, to enjoy a taste of something different for the night. It’s like when he goes to a restaurant he’s been to a thousand times and sits and stares at the menu for ten minutes, thinking that he might want a taste of this other thing that sounds so good, even knowing he’s going to order what he always orders. The unfamiliar is nice, tastes lovely and sweet, but much too rich to be a regular treat. Still, one enjoys it while they have it, and so Hamilton bucks back against John again and again, and just _enjoys_ , enjoys the tease of John’s cock nearly hitting home but not _quite_.

And maybe Jefferson really does get jealous then, because even though he’s rock hard watching the scene before him, still clad in boxer briefs and untouched, he looks over at Laurens. “Gonna give me a turn?”

Laurens gives a particularly hard thrust that makes Hamilton’s eyes roll back, even as he laughs and says, “I’m not an Xbox.”

Jefferson chuckles as he moves off the bed, slides a hand under Hamilton’s chest just to pinch a nipple and hums appreciatively when Hamilton moans. “Still know where all the buttons are, though.”

There’s barely a minute between when Laurens leaves him and Jefferson enters him, but Hamilton, needy and wanting, still feels the absence. Laurens crawls up to the head of the bed and takes Jefferson’s spot, and Jefferson grips Hamilton’s hips, thrusts inside him, _hard_ , and murmurs a soft _Alexander_ under his breath. Laurens lies still, breathing quick and shallow, watching the both of them, watching the way Hamilton’s fingers curl into the sheets, watching the way his mouth falls open on sounds Hamilton is quite sure the neighbours can hear.

John definitely knows what he’s doing, Hamilton thinks, but then there’s Jefferson. Jefferson, who knows every spot that Hamilton likes to be touched, has always known, even before the very first time they did this. He seems to be able to read Hamilton’s body like a map, to pinpoint with hands and teeth and tongue every destination he seems to believe he will someday go along the canyon of his spine, the valley between his thighs, the hollow of his throat. And even though Hamilton tells himself to resist, to not let John’s words about he and Jefferson become a prophecy, there is no inch of skin left that doesn’t sing with the way Hamilton _wants_ him. Hamilton knows that if he sat down, tapped a vein, opened it and bled, he’d hemorrhage poetry about the way he’s found a home somewhere between hating Jefferson and needing him so much that it’s starting to hurt.

John’s eyes don’t leave them; he too seems to be able to read Hamilton, but in a much different way. Jefferson reaches every part of him, knows him so intimately, but Laurens knows just enough to grasp that even though he and Hamilton are not meant for one another, they are alike in one key aspect: even if they won’t admit it to themselves, they both know when it’s time to stop pretending. Even John can see that Hamilton is falling to pieces in Jefferson’s hands, crumbling like pastry, and knows that nobody else will be able to do these things to him.

Still, he doesn’t seem ready to quit just yet, one hand drifting between his legs, a smile on his lips. He gets up onto his knees, moves down the bed until he’s positioned just in front of Hamilton’s mouth, making it clear exactly what he’s angling for.

Hamilton takes Laurens into his mouth and lets his own hand slide beneath him. He tries hard not to buck forward into his own fist under the power of Jefferson’s thrusts, touches himself slow, careful, aware that he’s getting close now but not wanting to come just yet. Not before Laurens, at least. Laurens rocks his hips up into Hamilton’s mouth, leans back on his heels and grips handfuls of Hamilton’s hair, making soft noises that make Hamilton feel an odd sense of satisfaction. But when he glances up, licking across the slit with the very tip of his tongue, John’s eyes are closed, his cheeks are flushed, and it’s clear his mind is somewhere else.

Hamilton wonders where, but he doesn’t have to wonder long, because Laurens starts murmuring little fragmented phrases, long pauses between them so that Hamilton has to focus to string them together, even with Jefferson still doing his best to make his mind go utterly blank. “I just… kept thinking I’d never have you, Alex – _god_ , yes, like that – and…” His hips roll forward again so he slides along Hamilton’s tongue, hits the back of his throat.

“I’m stubborn… knew it’d never work and he’s…” His hand strokes along Hamilton’s cheek. “He’s wanted me, I know he has… been ignoring him for you and… oh fuck, Alex, your mouth is so _good_.” John’s hips stutter, tremble, and Hamilton only sucks harder, licks all the way up to the tip and focuses his tongue there. “So good but n-not… not made for French the way his is. Want him to fuck me…”

His thighs shake now, too, and Laurens leans back, hands falling away from Hamilton’s hair to the mattress to brace himself, leaning further back on his heels, trying to fuck Hamilton’s mouth again. “Want him to fuck me the way Thomas fucks you.” And Hamilton glances upward again, thinks it’s no accident that John’s eyes are open now, fixed on Jefferson, no accident because Jefferson just happens to resemble Lafayette, just enough that it’s easy for him to imagine himself in Hamilton’s position, to imagine Lafayette in Jefferson’s place. And then he’s coming down Hamilton’s throat, hot and salty-sweet, mouth open on a broken moan that sounds like the beginning of a name that is neither his nor Jefferson’s.

Laurens pulls away when the warmth of Hamilton’s mouth is too much, collapses back against the pillows a quivering mess and continues to watch them through eyes that are slit lazily like a cat’s. And for some reason, Laurens tapping out seems to give Jefferson some sort of permission to take Hamilton and own him. Perhaps it’s just that he’s no longer sharing, that he’s no longer taking a backseat to Hamilton and Laurens sorting themselves out, but whatever it is, he wraps one arm firmly around Hamilton, pulls him up against him, still inside of him, so that his back is against Jefferson’s chest, heaving with breaths he can’t quite catch.

Hamilton reaches behind him, hand finding the back of Jefferson’s thigh, and he tries to pull Jefferson against him harder, faster, so desperate now. Not for the end, but for the high because he’s addicted, because he loves the way he’s both on fire and drowning all at once the second his orgasm just floods his whole body like morphine. He clenches tight around Jefferson’s cock, drags a little animal growl out of his throat, then thrusts his hips back against him.

“Thomas,” he murmurs, and Jefferson’s name sounds at home in his mouth now; he’s said it enough that it no longer tastes strange. “Thomas, please.”

He expects for a moment that Jefferson will make him beg, but he doesn’t. He reaches around Hamilton, pushes his hand away, begins stroking him off at an uneven, unsteady pace. But his touch is as good as it always is, and Hamilton is on the edge before he even knows it, hanging on by a thread, by a thread of realisation that he is, as Laurens said, lost to anyone else. Thomas has him now, holds tight to him with hands that were always meant for him.

Hamilton knows what this is now; he’s done the math. He’s still scared of it, but it’s suddenly a shadow looming large over the room, unwilling to go ignored anymore. He’s caught for a moment like slow motion in the haze of Jefferson behind him, Laurens lying there, watching the two of them, a look on his face that says _I told you so_. That what this really is, aside from aching bodies in the morning and a hell of a story to tell, is his and Jefferson’s bridge to one another.

They’ve stood for so long now on opposite sides, and they’ve probably both pretended just a little bit here tonight that Laurens is more than merely an intermediary, but he’s not. He’s a middle man, an island off the coast of the nation Hamilton and Jefferson have built around each other, an island at which they launch all the things they won’t allow themselves to have, to be, to feel, like nuclear weapons. Out of fear that it will all collapse beneath them, they just haven’t met in the middle. But Hamilton doesn’t think they can rest in this stalemate anymore. They have to go to one another, test the strength of whatever it is they’re built on, and if they fall, hope that the water is warm. Risk-taking has been Hamilton’s whole life, and this one could hurt more than most, but not taking it is no longer an option. Not with the extraordinary rightness he feels with Jefferson, against all odds.

Jefferson’s mouth finds his ear and it takes Hamilton a moment to break out of his thoughts and understand his words. “Come for me, Alexander,” he’s whispering. Hamilton doesn’t have time to ruminate on how obedient he’s become at Jefferson’s slightest urging; he simply obeys, back arching against Jefferson’s chest, coming all over his hand and the bed, wondering for a moment if he blacks out because all he feels is the sensation of being lost in a cloud, still held tight by strong arms but floating away.

He comes back to himself slowly, still up on shaking knees but with his face pressed into the bed, Jefferson bent over his back, still buried inside him, gasping for air. Hamilton thinks vaguely that he’s just missed another of Jefferson’s spectacular moments of lost control, vows to never again be so carried away that he forgets to witness the effect he himself has on Jefferson. Not out of pride but because he loves the way Jefferson gives himself over to it now.

It takes a while before they can move to clean up, and Laurens watches them through sleepy eyes all the while, a smile playing about his mouth. When they finally settle into the bed, Laurens on one side, Hamilton in the middle, and Jefferson on the other, Laurens speaks again at last.

“You two are something else,” he says through a half-stifled yawn.

Hamilton turns onto his stomach and presses his face into a pillow. “Can’t keep up, huh?” he teases.

Laurens laughs. “No, actually. I can’t. Can’t figure out how you two fuck like animals and it still looks romantic.”

Jefferson’s arm curls around Hamilton and he rolls over so he’s pressed up tight against him. “Romance has always been my forte,” he says, and Laurens and Hamilton merely look at each other, grinning.

“Of course it has,” Laurens says, his tone blatantly disbelieving.

And Hamilton thinks maybe they should all talk more, but he feels tired way down to his bones and he’s close to sleep now, despite the early hour. He doesn’t really remember falling asleep, only that when he does, Jefferson’s arm is still around him, and with the knowledge that most people have only ever wanted to deny they know the kid with the temper and the big mouth, Hamilton feels, perhaps for the first time in his life, as though he’s been claimed.

#

 Hamilton’s whole body aches with a soreness he’s never felt before, not to this extent and certainly not for the reasons he’s feeling it now. Because there’s been sex and then there was last night, and if he shifts even just a little, he can feel all the things that last night was in his muscles.

Hamilton expects them to have gone by now, but before he even opens his eyes, he can feel their presence surrounding him. He blinks hard and squints at a strip of sunlight painting the room from a gap in the curtains and stares at the ceiling for a long moment before letting his head fall to the right. Laurens is only a few inches away, lips parted the tiniest bit, snoring softly, one arm shoved beneath a pillow, the other lying in between them. Hamilton strokes his knuckles gently across John’s shoulder, thinks about kissing apologies against miles of golden-brown skin, against each and every freckle. But he knows now that he no longer needs to apologise. If there was anything to forgive, it was gone the night before. Laurens has already forgiven himself and Hamilton and now he only has to reach out and take what Lafayette has been offering him for well over a year. Hamilton smiles when he imagines they’ll have a lot of catching up to do; this well may be the last time Laurens sees the sun for a while, until he and Lafayette are done christening every surface of the latter’s new apartment.

Hamilton turns onto his left side to look at Jefferson, who looks peaceful and yet somehow smug, even in sleep. He’d like to kiss Jefferson right now, too, in addition to the more primal urges in him, things that burn like fire in his chest because no matter how many times he has him, he’s never going to be satisfied. And Hamilton can’t help but remind himself that this is the first time Jefferson has ever stayed, slept in his bed. It’s the first time Hamilton’s ever woken up to him, he’s already used to the idea of it happening every day.

Hamilton lets his fingertips dance across one firm, thick bicep. The lightest touch imaginable, but it wakes Jefferson nonetheless, his eyes slowly opening and immediately fixing on Hamilton’s. They don’t speak for a long while, but finally, Jefferson whispers, “What have we done?”

Hamilton bites back a smile, tries to think of the right words, and eventually whispers back, “We found the right place to be.”

Jefferson closes his eyes slowly and then opens them again, as if he can’t get his mind around the idea. “Alexander Hamilton, my right place to be. Imagine that.” But there’s no sarcasm there, not really; his voice is low and husky and it sounds like want, and god, does Hamilton feel like giving him whatever he wants.

He slides his left hand up under the pillow to find Jefferson’s right, locks their fingers together, finally just takes the chance and closes the space that’s been lingering between them. It seems to snuff out the bitterness that once existed between them, the hate – which is not to say they’ll never have good hate sex again, because Hamilton thinks they’ll always be at each other’s throats about damn near everything. But there’s a new fire there now, something that burns hotter and brighter than the hate ever did.

They lie in silence for a long minute, and then Laurens clears his throat behind Hamilton. Hamilton cranes his neck around to look at him. “Think I should go find my right place to be.”

Hamilton smirks, reaches out with his other hand to grasp one of John’s just briefly before letting go for good. “Yeah, I think you should. I’m sorry you wasted so much time.”

Laurens slides out of bed, begins collecting clothing from the floor. “It was my time to waste, my fault, too,” he says. “Mea culpa. But it wasn’t all bad. You’re still better looking than any man has right to be and with more brains than any man has right to have.”

“Back at you,” Hamilton says with a grin. “So the Yanks game next weekend at your place, right?”

“Damn straight,” John replies, and heads for the door. He pauses in the doorway and looks back at them both for a moment, a hesitant question finally making its way to his lips after he opens and closes his mouth a few times. “At the risk of sounding cheesy as all hell, how… how d’you know this _is_ the right thing?”

Hamilton is just about to speak, but Jefferson, who has been watching their interaction but saying nothing, beats him to it. “Because I just woke up in the scratchiest sheets in the worst little place in the shittiest neighbourhood and I know Alexander has the hardest water in his shower with the least amount of pressure in the universe and the most disgusting coffee in his kitchen.”

Hamilton frowns, and Lauren gapes at him for a second. “ _That’s_ how you know?”

And Jefferson just smirks. “Well, see, the thing is, despite all that, I don’t miss my apartment right now. At all. That’s how I know.”

Laurens laughs and shakes his head, retreats from the room and a moment later, the front door shuts behind him.

Alone again with Jefferson, Hamilton curls against his side, his hand roaming across Jefferson’s chest, stopping just over his heart. He can feel it hammering underneath his palm.  
Jefferson tries for weak sarcasm. “Yeah, it turns out I have one.”

But Hamilton doesn’t let him carry on; the game is over, or maybe it never even started. Maybe it was always a lot of bluster, so much bark that it felt like bite when neither of them ever really had the teeth for it.

“I always knew that,” he says quietly, and Thomas looks away as if Hamilton’s serious tone is far too honest for him in this moment. Instead of responding, he rolls over so he’s lying on top of Hamilton, but Hamilton fights him on it. He knows he’s not strong enough, but he wrestles with Thomas for a few minutes anyway, pretending he’s got a snowball’s chance in hell of pinning him and oh, when did he become simply _Thomas_?

It’s as if _Jefferson_ is no longer good enough for what they are, whatever they are. The whole damn world has _Jefferson_ , but only a privileged few have _Thomas_ , and as Hamilton lays claim to it, he suddenly understands why Thomas has only ever called him _Alexander_. Sure, it was partly to piss him off at the beginning, but now, his use of Hamilton’s full, given name seems so obviously his way of putting his mark on the pieces of Hamilton nobody else has access to. Abruptly, Hamilton gives up.

They’re both breathing hard, and Thomas has got both hands laced together with Hamilton’s, pinning them to the mattress and hovering just above him. There’s a pause, and then Thomas lays his forehead against Hamilton’s, and, close enough that Hamilton can feel the brush of his lips, he mutters, “You’ve fucking ruined me, Alexander, congratulations.”

And then he’s kissing him. It’s so unlike the kisses they’ve shared before, where they’d kiss one another simply to shut the other up, or kiss in the middle of the heat of fucking, all ferocity of tongue and teeth and none of the sweetness he’s seeing here, the sweetness he got a taste of last night.

And it is _sweet_. Honey sweet and no more feeling of _maybe we shouldn’t_ , just Thomas devouring his mouth, pulling one hand free of Hamilton’s to thread into his hair. There’s a hoarse moan at the back of Hamilton’s throat, and he lets Thomas swallow that down, too, hungry as he seems to be for this. With Thomas’s tongue in his mouth, all Hamilton can think is how terrifying it is to have his world turned so upside down that being in love with Thomas fucking Jefferson makes _sense_ , that it feels _right_ , that he knows now that settling down free from whatever fire there is in this relationship was just never going to happen. He needs this relationship like he needs the way Thomas is kissing him, needs the fight-then-fuck thing they have like he needs to breathe, needs the sheer power of the euphoria he feels when Thomas touches him like he needs to live.

He can feel his whole self dissolving on Thomas’s tongue like cotton candy; every bit of him feels heavy and light at once with Thomas’s mouth on his. And when he pulls away, his voice is a soft sigh of sound in the quiet of the room. “Alexander.” Hamilton’s name on his lips is romantic like a first snowfall or a summer bonfire, yet with all the weight of a sledgehammer behind it. For a moment, his name is the only thing Hamilton thinks Thomas will say, but then he slides his fingers through Hamilton’s hair, again and again, and murmurs, “I hate how much I love you.”

Hamilton laughs and makes a little noise of satisfaction, free hand finding its way to Thomas’s cheek. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.” Thomas’s laughter is hushed, and Hamilton takes a moment to absorb it all: the soft sound, the way his shoulders shake, how the early morning light from the window falls on him and makes all of this seem as though it exists only in another world. But it doesn’t. It’s happening right here, right now.

Their laughter subsides after a moment or two, but only because Thomas takes advantage of the distraction to grind his hips down into Hamilton’s. Hamilton is unsurprised to find him as hard as he is himself, both of them always wanting, wanting, _wanting_.

Hamilton is unashamed of the sound he makes. He arches upward and whines softly, “Mm, fuck me again. _Please_?” He tries to buck upward against Thomas, but Thomas holds himself back. “Come on, come on, I love you, please,” Hamilton gasps, because he wants more right now than the slow torture of Thomas’s teasing.

“I’m not good at this,” Thomas warns, nuzzling against Hamilton’s jaw. “The relationship thing. I’ve never… I’m just not.”

“Okay,” Hamilton whispers. “Okay. Me either. Baby steps. Slow. Slow as you want, I swear. Now are you gonna fuck me or do I gotta ask twice?”

Thomas just smiles and shakes his head. “Never gotta ask twice.”

His hands on Hamilton’s body feel so much like the stars aligning. Hamilton, despite his pretense otherwise, knows nothing of fate or superstition; everything in his life has always been much too literal for that. But he thinks if someone looked at cards for him or read his palms, it would all come down to Thomas. Not just once or twice, but every time, always. And god, how stupid he’s been to be afraid.


End file.
